Lovely War(14)

Hazel’s evening involved a lecture with her mother. An army chaplain, sharing inspirational stories about how God watched over the British faithful at the Front.

Just not our organist, Hazel thought.

Her father was at the Town Hall, which was the name of the Poplar theater and music hall where he played Saturday night. When the lecture ended, Hazel walked her mother home, then stopped in at the Town Hall to pass the evening with her father.

“It’s no place for a young lady,” her mother protested. “Your dad won’t be pleased.”

“I’ll turn pages for him,” Hazel assured her mother. “I’ll stay right on the bench.”

And she did. It was a cozy night, tucked in next to her father in his bowler hat, striped shirt, and bow tie. His flying fingers embellished “Bicycle Built for Two,” “I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am,” “Burlington Bertie from Bow,” and, of course, “Tipperary.”

Hazel knew her father’s way of playing would make Monsieur Guillaume, her instructor, queasy, but she still loved watching him. When she was a tiny thing seated on his lap, her daddy had played with his long arms encircling her, as though his curly-headed girlie wasn’t blocking his view. The spread of keys seemed flexible under his spell, full of bounce in the sprightly, giddy tunes popular with the stars of the music halls.

And, oh, they were stars. One after another, the performers claimed the stage and the hearts of Poplar. They performed, they bowed, they took an encore, then they dashed offstage to a car waiting in the alley to zip them off to the next nightclub to perform again. The most popular might sing or dance or joke or pantomime a dozen times and more in a night. In garish costumes, in army officers’ uniforms, in cutaway coats and gleaming waistcoats, and glittering gowns. And, for some of them, in blackface.

The blackface performers brought down the house. “Look at the crazy coon!” women would shriek. “Sing it again, darkie!”

But Hazel’s father didn’t like it. When the men painted black performed, his mouth hardened and he stared at the ivories. Normally the man didn’t ever seem to need to look at the keys.

“Your father’s a coward, Hazy,” he told her. “It’s wrong, what they’re doing. It’s disgusting. It’s unchristian. If I were a man, I’d quit in protest.”

She took his hand in hers. “What would you do then?”

“That’s just it,” he told her. “I’m a coward. I support this trash to pay my bills. Remember, we’re all God’s children. Be braver than I’ve been.”

Hazel couldn’t fathom a scenario that would require such bravery of her. But she would remember her father’s words before long.





DECEMBER 1942


     First Witness





“I’D LIKE TO call my first witness,” Aphrodite tells the judge.

Ares pulls a pillow over his bare chest. “You’re not summoning mortals here, are you?”

“Get ahold of yourself,” she tells him. “Your Honor? May I?”

Hephaestus wonders what he’s agreeing to. An escape plot? A ploy to summon help? But she’s come this far with her story. He’s curious. He nods.

She glances out the window. A bright streak of light arcs in the sky. Moments later a knock sounds at the hotel room door.

“Come in,” calls Aphrodite.

The door opens, and a tall man in a pin-striped blue zoot suit strolls in, lithe and athletic. He sports a wide fuchsia necktie, loose at his collar, brown-and-white Oxford shoes, and a white fedora tipped low over his brow.

There’s an awful lot of male perfection in that hotel room all of a sudden. The newcomer is a stunner of a specimen. Greek profile, muscular frame, golden glow. He’s got it all.

He surveys the captive pair and snorts with laughter. “I can’t begin to imagine what’s been going on here.” He holds up his palms. “But I don’t judge. I do not judge.” He notices Hephaestus’s gavel. “Apparently, you do, though.”

He doffs his fedora to Aphrodite. “Evening, sis.”

“Good evening, Apollo,” she says. “A spectacular sunset tonight.”

“Nice of you to notice.” He bounces on the bed a few times, testing its springs. “So what’s going on, anyway?”

“A jealous husband’s tribunal,” declares Ares. “His wife chose the better man.”

“Go dunk your head,” adds Hephaestus.

“She’s telling a story,” Ares tells Apollo, “to explain to him why she’s ditching him for me. Why Love loves War, so to speak.” He feels clever. A rare occurrence, off the battlefield.

“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?” snaps Aphrodite.

“‘Why does Love love War?’” echoes Apollo.

“That isn’t the question at all,” Aphrodite protests.

But Apollo is intrigued. “I’m crazy about War.”

Ares wrinkles his nose. “Well, this is awkward—”

“Some other time, perhaps,” Apollo says with lazy grace. “I didn’t mean you.”

“There’s no coliseum big enough to hold your two egos,” mutters Hephaestus.